W^en you anb 3 
Were lKi65 



Wl)cn you anb Tl 
Were TK:i65 



IKarr^ ^1. tJttarrlaer 




DALLAS, TEXAS 
1911 



f93^ 



s 



,P,Jo\^ 



\^A\ 



Copyright 19 11 
By Harf?y L. Marriner 

ALU RIGHTS RESERVED 
PtrntlSHEU OCTOBEK, 1»11 



These verses are reprinted throusb 
the courtesy of the Galveston-Dallas 
News, in wiiich they originally appeared 
as a daily fcofjre 



WILKINSON PRINTING CO. 

1323 COMMERCE ST. 

DALLAS, TE)? AS 



^CI,A802329 




N presenting this little book, 
"When You and I Were 
Kids," the author does so 
with full knowledge, that, 
however people may criti- 
cise the quality ol the verse, they can 
not accuse him of drawing upon his 
imagination for subjects. He was a 
boy once upon a time, and he wishes 
he were again. 

He has reached that point in life 
where he does not want the million dol- 
lars he wanted as a kid, and would be 
content now to have what he then de- 
spised. 

The saddest part of it is that he's 
about as close to the one as to the other, 
and every day seems to take him further 
away from both goals. Lots of people 
feel just as he does, and to these, this 
little book is sympathetically dedicated. 




BEECHES old and gray with 

age in vivid green are clad, 
And all about the signs of spring 

are blooming bright and glad, 
Just as it was long years ago, 

when you and I, care free, 
Spent hours. Dear, at carving our 

initials on a tree. 

The bark was smooth and silver- 
gray, and noises filled the air. 
For squirrels saw no reason why we two should 

linger there; 
But nothing ever took too long — what cared we for 

the hours, 
When Hfe was one sweet strain of song, one par- 
adise of flowers? 

I drew a heart of noble size and carved within 

its space 
The letters of your name and mine, cut deep to 

stay always, 
And then next day I went alone, and no one knew 

the thrill 
Witli which I took my dull old knife and carved 

them deeper still. 

The years have come and passed away, our lives 

have grown apart, 
But those initials, now grown deep, stand in that 

ragged heart ; 
But deep as they lie in the tree, grown firm in 

every line, 
The letters graven in that heart are deeper still in 

mine. 




WE don't want Cinderella — that's 

' so 6\d and tiresome, too; 

An' we don't want Mister Rabbit — 

Mother, tell us somethin' new; 
Tell about th' purple fairies an' 

their butterflies, you know, 
And about th' fairy garden where 
th' tiger lilies grow — . 
MOTHER ! You are j ust a-jokin'. Why, you 

know it — yes, you do. 
Don't you' member when you told us, an' said all 
of it was true? 

So before her watchful critics Mother sits with 

busy brain. 
Trying to recall the features of that "made-up" tale 

again. 

Treading as upon a tight-rope in each cautious step 

she takes. 
Fearful of corrective clamor if she ever makes mis- 
takes. 

Bless their hearts, they knew it better than their 

Mother does, and yet 
They must have her tell it over, even if she does 

forget. 
For amusement of all manner by comparison must 

fail 
When considered by the babies with a Mother's 

fairy tale. 




FROM Memory's shrouded val- 
leys, brotiglit to light by some 
stray thought, 
ri)!|^l Comes a half- forgotten prayer 
that your childish lips were 
taught. 

And through years between, di- 
vided by a vista fair and wide, 

You can see, as through a 
ciystal, through the gloom on 
either side. 

* * * * 9|c ]^ 4: 

You were kneeling by }our mother, at her well- 
remembered chair; 

Little forms in nighties kneeling ; little toes so pink 
and bare 

Pressed against the worn rag carpet, and for fur- 
rowed ridges felt 

Even while your thoughts were solemn, as you 
clasped your hands and knelt. 

You could see her face above you, calm with mother 
love, and sweet, 

As she said the little prayer you would, word by 
word, repeat, 

Then you'd wait to have her kiss you on your bowed 
and towsled hair, 

And you'd leap, elate, triumphant, from your kneel- 
ing by her chair. 

********** 
Then the dark years roll together, closing fast the 

vista bright, 
Leaving you to wish your prayer might be just as 

then, to-night. 




RECESS they thronged about 

hhn, begging him to let them 

know 
Why it was, and how it happened, 

that a rag was on his toe — 
"Take it off and let us see it," 

eager voices made request, 
But the pride of one exalted by a 

wound had filled his breast. 



"Aw, now, Jimmie, lemme see it;" "Huh, he's 

jest as mean as dirt." 
"Did you stump your toe or cut it ?" "Did it bleed 

much?" "Does it hurt?" 
"Let him be, he's just pretendin' — ^make believe 

he hurt his toe — " 
"Jimmy, how'd you come to hurt it?" "Smarty, 

don't you want to know?" 



But when they were having spelling, Jimmie from 

his throne unbent. 
Toward a flower-faced little maiden, bursting with 

his love he leant — 
"If you lemme walk home with you," came his 

eager whisper low, 
"Cross m' heart an' body, Susy, I will let you see 

my toe." 



5T? WISH I had a dollar bill," he 
said, and heaved a sigh; 
J^f' tUi "Downtown I saw in Johnson's 
^ store a purple bat-wing tie; 

It's just the tie I'd like to have, 
l^a and some day soon I will; 

{fv^lfTi^i^^'^ ^'^^ ^^^^ *^ ^^^* ^^^ p^y ^^y* 

^' ~ ' ^ though; it costs a dollar bill. 



"I wish I had a dollar bill," she 
said, and gave a sigh; 
"For if I had, while sales are on such bargains I 

could buy! 
I'd get some New Mown Hay perfume, and half a 

pound of tea — 
And maybe draw a check that gives an automobile 

free. 
I'd get a pair of rubber gloves; some handkerchiefs 

and lace; 
Some toweling at thirteen cents I saw at Bixby's 

place ; 
Some cotton goods — the sale is on. Now isn't it 

too hard? 
They're selling it like anything at just four cents a 

yard! 

^*I want a set of banjo strings, and need a baking 

pan. 
They're selling talcum powder, too, at seven cents 

a can; 
And lots of other things I'd buy — ^it's so hard to 

sit still 
And think what I am missing when I need a dollar 

bill." 



IS gone, our dear old Mammy — ■ 

•loving, loyal, fierce and kind; 
Black of face and broad of bo- 
som ; leaving us all sad, behind. 
We had known her first as babies 
— loved her through succeed- 
ing years, 
And we see her homely features 
dimly through a mist of tears. 
Listen — can't you hear her sing- 
i n g "Jesus, Lover of My 
Soul!" 

Can't you hear her tell a story of 
"de house built outeh gol'?" 
Can't you see your bare feet flying from her kitchen 

where you'd go 
Never knowing how she'd take it, asking for her 
scraps of dough? 




Maybe, dear old Mammy's happy ; surely God must 

know her worth ; 
And it took so very little to complete her joy on 

earth ; 
And some day we'll hear her crying when we're 

called to our last home — 
"Praise de Lawd, de bressed Jesus! Glory, heah*s 

mah chillun cum!" 



COUSIN J I M, he lived out 

West, he wore a cowboy suit; 

His pants was leather, and Sis 

says he sure was awful cute; 
He used to milk an' feed th' cows 
— I guess he did it, or 
He hired somebody, for you see, 
what else is cowboys for? 

So when he come to call on Sis 

we looked in there at him, 
And don't you know it made us 

sick to look at Cousin Jim? 
He looked just like all other men, 
an'awful clean an' tame. 
Doggone him. He's no good, he ain't. Ain't it a 
burnin' shame? 




He didn't have no leather pants, an' out there in 

th' hall 
We found his hat — a derby hat that wasn't big at 

all. 
His hair was short instead of long, an' worst of all 

he done, 
He come in patent leather shoes an' didn't tote his 

gun. 

Oh, shucks ! We wouldn't walk acrost th' street to 

look at him. 
An' we'd had all th' boys to see our Wild West 

Cousin Jim. 








■^ 



YOU remember, dear, the time 
we went out on the bay 
i ] ]^^^- And gayly launched our motor 
( ' ^M boat to cruise about all day? 

^J^':^____ ^ The engine popped and yapped 

^A%'^SlE ?p^ and wheezed for fully half a 
mile, 
And then decided it was tired and 
ought to rest a while? 

J We lay becalmed out in the bay, 
beneath the broiling sun; 
And folks ashore no doubt sur- 
mised that we were having fun ; 
While I, armed with a monkey 
wrench, and black with reeking 
oil, 

^^^ ~ Put in the day at earnest work, 
at painful, greasy toil. 

You were afraid it would explode, or catch afire and 
burn. 

And so you hung your frame far out, and overhung 
the stem. 

And asked me eighty times an hour what you al- 
ready knew — 

If it was broken, and what time I'd probably get 
through. 

We came back towed behind a skiff rowed by a 

freckled boy, 
Who made signs to all passing craft suggesting utter 

joy; 

We didn't speak a word I'm sure, but you, no doubt, 

took note 
I didn't throw the anchor out to hold that motor 

boat. 




MAMMY baked, we children 
''^''^ knew that from her kingdom 

hot 
Such things as children long 

to get would soon fall to our 

^^ But, bless your heart, the fear 
of her would fill your soul with 
'■^ dread, 

Until you weighed what she would say, and what 
she meant instead. 

(Git outeh mah kitchen! Cum clutterin' erhout 
"ufen Vse bakin'. Go out doahs dah, wheah yuh 
h'long, an' don' yuh cum trapesin' eroun' me lifen 
Vse hizsy!) 

She'd hum a sad, sonorous hymn; with watchful, 

longing eyes, <;, 

We stood outside and, looking in, would see her 

trimming pies; 
And doughy remnants from her knife in soggy 

spirals curled — 
The finest thing to make dough men — the finest 

in the world! 

(Whuf yuh loo kin' att G'way outeh mah 
light! Dough men? Umph! A' in' I got nuffin 
fdo hut hake tJiingamajiggehsf) 

And when our hope had 'most expired beneath her 

awful frown. 
She'd jerk a pan out of the stove — oh, dough men, 

fat and brown! 
We knew she'd do it, all the time, no matter what 

she'd say. 
And we could only watch and wait — for that was 

Mammy's way. 

{Umph! Now I hope you dun hodderin' 
de raisin eyes — dat's foh de baby. G'way fum 
me. Get outeh heah! Doan' yuh eat dafn wif 
yeah!) 



THE ^bam we had the circus; 

twenty pins to see the show ; 
/^ Pretty stiff the price was, maybe, 

3x^=r but the boys all had to go; 
^fei And the Forepaughs were not 
in it, Bamum's show was pretty 
H r-^Trtr-^/' bad, 
^^^^^^^/'^ Sells' was just a side attraction 
when compared with what we 
'■'^^X'^^ had. 

In a coop of poultry netting seven tomcats paced 

around. 
They were tigers — all man-eaters, fiercest beasts 

above the ground, 
And the calf looked quite ferocious painted up a 

glaring blue, 
While Aunt Molly's globe of goldfish v/as a great 

exhibit, too. 

We had borrowed goats and wagons — went and got 
them any place; 

We had four, all of them entered in the famous 
Roman race; 

And I was the tight-rope walker; with a thrill I 
still recall 

How I kissed my hand and balanced on the board- 
ing of a stall. 

But it didn't last, that circus; what is best soon 

fades away; 
This one faded when our father came to throw the 

mule some hay; 
For he scoffed and called it foolish, waste of time 

and money, too; 
Then his gaze fell on that heifer painted in its 

ghastly blue; 
And it swiftly queered the circus, and for many a 

weary day 
We ate standing at the mantel — we preferred our 

meals that way. 




MISTER Thompson used to 

come to see Aunt Cora Belle. 
We children knew it sure next 

day — we had a way to tell; 
We wouldn't ever let her know 

the way we always knew, 
And it would make her mad as 

hops because our guess came 

true. 



They'd send us early up to bed, and think we 

couldn't know, 
But every blessed time he'd come we knew, and 

told her so; 
For in the morning we would find our sign out 

on the lawn — 
The funny way they left the chairs when both of 

them was gone; 
And there they'd be just like we thought, set in 

the same old place. 
Just jammed up close as they could get, and sittin' 

face to face. 




'\n -_^ THINGS have changed, dear 

rLwlAJ ^'^^^^ ^^^^' '^^ scarce a dozen 
years ! 
You were a solemn little mite, 
with curls about your ears, 
^ iv^ And maybe you recall it, too, 
whenever I would call 
\Vith candy for your sister, Jane, 
you ate it nearly all. 

That foot — observe it — was your horse, and you 

would gaily ride 
Without (oh, shame!) divided skirts, though you 

would sit astride; 
The horse would gallop, trot or rack, whichever 

you preferred, 
And though you kicked to make him go, he never 

said a word. 

It's funny how things change about. You're 

eighteen now, perhaps. 
And I am — well, I hold my age, no doubt, like 

other chaps; 
You're sitting in your sister's chair — just like your 

sister, too; 
And no small fairy comes to eat your candy up 

for you. 

She's married now. What was his name? I 

ought to know it, yet 
It seems so very long ago — so long that I forget. 
Have I forgotten? Yes, I have. What idiots 

we were! 
I only think of her because you make me think 

of her. 




YOU remember 'way back there 

— it seems almost another 

Hfe— 
How bad you felt when you would 

lose your sure-'nuff-buckhom- 

handle knife? 
And how you'd grieve and grieve 

for it, and think how good and 

sharp it was; 
With four blades, too, one "Congress shape," that 
was so sharp it whittled straws? 

It used to come, then like a flash — of course you'd 

find that knife, and — spat! 
You went and looked. Of course it did! It led 

you where your knife was at! 
They tell you now that isn't so — nobody found a 

knife that way. 
But boys all know that it is sure, no matter what 

some people say. 
For if you went just where it told, you found out 

where that knife was hid. 
It might be luck, but don't tell boys — the boys who 

tried and know it DID. 




V^OU never weary, Mother? Do 
your busy hands 

Ever cease from loving labor at 
your child's commands? 

There's a stocking needing darn- 
ing — here's a broken toy; 

Here's a heap of trash, a relic of 
some transient joy. 

See the bookcase yawning empty 
where were books before, 

For the shelves seemed just ex- 
actly made for playing store. 

Bumps and scratches need atten- 
tion forty times a day — 
Mother has to kiss and heal them, driving pain 

away, 
And at night, when on the pillows golden curls 

are spread, 
When the Sand Man waves his sifter over each 

small head, 
Mother kneels there by their bedside, praying that 

next day 
May be filled with just such labors while her 

babies play. 




DOTH the mind of man go back 

to when he was a boy; 
When feet were full of tan and 

dust, and life was full of joy; 
But many a man looks back in 

fear, for in a time-worn chair, 
He sees himself draped in a sheet, 

while Mother cuts his hair. 






The scissors drag, and sniffles rise 

when ears lop in the way. 
And on the porch rain locks of 
hair like tufts of prairie hay, 
'Til in the glass a little boy, his anguish scarcely 

hid. 
Looks on himself and views with pain the job 
that Mother did. 

The mule may shed in summertime the felt that 

Nature grew. 
The rabbit may lose bits of fur, and look like blazes, 

too; 
But neither bears that patchwork look, that war 

map of despair. 
That zigags on the small boy's head when Mother 

cuts his hair. 




YOU^ever hide under the cover 

and hsten and listen at night, 
In fear there'd be ghosts come to 

get you — great, scary ghosts 

dressed all in white? 
Then you'd shiver, and over and 

over you'd make up your mind 

to be good, 
And then you would call out for 

Mother — just call her as loud 

as vou could. 



She always would come when you called her, and 
knelt by you, smoothing your hair, 

No ghost ever bothered a baby whenever its mother 
was there — 

She'd promise that nothing should hurt you, and 
leave you asleep and at peace, 

And banish all ghosts in creation before she would 
rise from her knees. 



We've ghosts of a kind ever with us, while Mothers 

cannot always stay. 
They come from our deeds and our doubtings, these 

hideous phantoms of gray — 
Yet often just thinking of Mother will easily drive 

them away. 



(?« 




CAREFUL— don't breathe on 
it! Watch it—" It soars 
with a bound and a roll, 

That wonder you made, green 
and golden, foiTn soapsuds 
that seethed in a bowl. 

Look back there — you feel it 
still, don't you? That spat- 
ter of mist, bitter-cool, 

That flew in your face, half- 
expected, because you had 
laughed through the spool? 



You breathed through that spool and it started, a 

bubble unsightly and young; 
A grayish-white globule of water; beneath it a 

heavy drop swung, 
But this you removed with your finger; 'twould 

drop at a touch, as you knew, 
And gently you blew in your bubble, increasing its 

size as you blew. 

The crimson waves circled within it — the gold and 
the purple and green: 

It grew to a size that amazed you ; the biggest you 
ever had seen; 

Its colors ran riot and mingled until you were al- 
most afraid 

To think of your wondrous creation — that shim- 
mering gloiy you'd made. 

Then there was a mist — it had broken! The soap- 
dripping spool in your hand 

Was just as it was at the moment your bubble was 
wondrous and grand. 

And you. child, were sad, never knowing that 
though you were grieved in your play. 

You'd, later, find hopes were all bubbles — and bub- 
bles are always that way. 



MA, kin I go in swimmin*? Out 

there's Mac an' Tom an' Jim. 

No, ma'am, not a bit of danger — 

why, Ma, Tom kin almost swim! 

>JQ^%^ Tt ain't deep; it's awful shaller — 

just about a foot or so; 

jj l\Ia, they're waitin' out there for 

me — I'll be keerful — can't I go? 

WHOOP! Whoo-o-o-o-e-e! I'm 
goin', fellers ! Run like there was 
wolves behind! 
Ma, she's standin' there a-watchin — ^hurry; she 

might change her mind! 
Last one in's a sissy, fellers! There's the place by 

that old tree ; 
Tom, he's last; A-a-a-a-ah! Sissy! Sissy! Come 
on in — ^just look at me!" 





PA and Major Miggles sets to 

play a game of chess 
You ought to see the fun they 

have — ^they set there hours, I 

guess, 
And never say a single word, but 

maybe Pa, he'll grin, 
And Major Miggles coughs a bit 

and growls and rubs his chin 
Until a thought soaks in his head 

and tickles him to death. 
So that he chuckles as he moves a knight, and holds 
his breath. 

Then Pa, he'll scowl and bite his nails, and fiddle 

with his men; 
He'll shove one out a little ways and jerk it back 

again; 
And then he'll cackle like a hen, and Major he'll 

look mean, 
For Pa, he'd moved, and up and took a castle with 

his queen. 
They keep it up for hours and hours; just settin* 

thinkin' there. 
And you can watch until you get to sleepin' in your 

chair. 
But if you wake you'll see 'em still play in the same 

old groove — 
Just thinkin', scowlin', bitin' nails and waitin' for 

their move. 



An' 
We 
An' 



CHRISTMAS Eve we used to wish 
that Ma was Hke old Mrs. Bounds, 

For she was awful nice an' fat an' 
weighed almost a million pounds, 

An' when we'd hang Ma's stockin's 
up that night they looked so aw- 
ful thin 

It seemed a shame that Santa Claus 
could get so very little in. 



Some people's Mas is big an' fat, 
but ours she don't get fat at 
all, 
Christmas Eve when we would hang her 

stockin' up against th' wall 
d sigh because of how they looked — so awful 

thin an' limp an' flat, 
wish we'd tried a year ago to feed Ma up an' 
make her fat. 





r^ UNCLE WILL he's got toothache; 

^MW lie's sick in bed to-day. 

He must feel bad, for all of us is put- 

tin' in th' hay. 

I 
An' you kin have all kinds o' fun when 

, hay is dry and brown, 

A-climbin' 'way up on th' stacks, an' 

then come slidin' down. 

He feels so bad he jest can't sleep — we peeked into 

his room, 
An' he was cleanin' out his pipe with straws out of 

th' broom, 
An' had had some nasty medicine he drunk down 

just as slow, 
An' took some water afterward, because it burnt 

him so. 
He kep' th' bottle in his coat, an' every now an' 

then 
He'd look eroun' an' take it out an' drink some more 

again ; 
It's awful hard on Uncle Will to be shet up all day 
While all of us is havin' fun a-puttin' in the hay. 



Older 




SISTERS are a nuisance every 

junk>r brother knows. 
Sisters should not be permitted to 

insult him as he grows. 
Often she is something dreadful — 

hurts him ever way she can. 
Just because he's put on trousers 

and by that become a man. 



When he's with the girls, she tells him, triumph 
ringing in her voice, 

He had better go and study — home's the place for 
little boys; 

And if he appears on Tuesday in his Sunday rai- 
ment dressed, 

She must know where he is going — well, all broth- 
ers know the rest. 

How his bosom swells with anger; how with cold 

and chilling air 
He ignores her foolish question; turns and leaves 

her standing there; 
Stalking off, a manly figure — ^but the victory falls 

flat, 
For behind he hears her laughing — ^LAUGHING 

at him, think of THAT! 




GRANDPA was a enjine horse — 
he was, you know, when he was 
young ; 
I ^ He'd sleep with all his day clothes 
fk^^^f] on, because whenever fire bells 
rung 
He'd have to slide off of th' roof, 
an' shinny down th' water spout 
To get there quick as he could go for fear the fire 
would be plumb out. 

Th' other boys were horses, too, an' wore th* red- 
dest kind o' shirts, 

An' dragged a little enjine 'round — th' kind that 
when you pump it squirts; 

An' they'd have races to th' fire, so when a man 
got in th' way 

They'd leave him spread out like a mat — just like 
a auto does to-day. 

I'd like to be a enjine horse, like grandpa was in 

them old days; 
It's just my luck to be bom late — I get the worst 

of things always; 

Th' enjines go past every day, an* long red hook- 

an'ladders, too. 
With horses gallopin' away, an* firemen stickin' on 

like glue. 
An' there I'll be, just lookin' on — an' sometimes 

run a little bit, 
But we don't ever have a fire that ain*t too far to 

go to it 




WAS Grandma's horsehair sofa; 
it fras black but now it's 
brown ; 

__ , Half th e spring's stick out the 

^^^^"^'^^tj)) bottom from our jumpin' up an' 

do\\'n : 
An' it's g-ot a hill at one end, but 
it ain't much good to slide, 
For it's full of little stickers, an' they hurt, for we 
have tried 

At both ends is sunk-in places where two people 

used to sit ; 
One was Grandma's an' the other — Grandpa wore 

the hole in it 
When he used to come to see her; that's the way 

they used to do, 
Sittin' way off there an' grinnin', when one place 

would do for two. 

Grandpa, he was mighty bashful; Gran'ma says 

he often sat 
Gettin' redder every hour, lookin' this-a-way and 

that ; 
Stretchin' out his neck an' chokin', without ever 

sayin' "Boo;" 
So if I'd been her that sofa would a-been sawed 

square in two. 







MOONLIGHT'S pale and silvery 
gleams through tangled pine- 
boughs strayed. 

And fell upon a rustic bench where 
sat a man and maid; 

He gazed into her starry eyes, in 



^^^(^'^^v^: which the moonbeams shone, 



And longed to tell her what he 
thought, and call her all his own. 



So much, indeed, that as she sighed, he nerved him- 
self to say — 

"That moon looks aAvful nice to-night; it felt like 
rain to-day;" 

And, bolder, through her gentle smile, his blood 
arose like sap, 

And made him long to take her hand left idle in her 
lap. 



He did ! He dared ! He took her hand, while mad- 
ness filled his brain, 

And then, for panic seized his soul, he put it back 
again; 

Whereat the maiden rose with speed ; it seemed a 
shock to her, 

And in a voice low, but intense, ejaculated: 
"Sir-r-r-r-r!!!!" 

And left him lonely on the bench beneath the moon- 
light cold. 

Reflecting on the liars that urged a lover to be bold! 



.^—-^^^ SAT^ upon the silver sands, quite 
j^ near and close, and holding hands ; 
^^^ The moonlight flooding o'er the bay 
^^-»sr*^' made everything as light as day. 
S^^i'^J He gazed into her eyes and said, 
"Just see the calm moon over- 
head;" 

It looks like pie," the maid replied, 
and nestled closer at his side. 



4. "I wish," said he, "that we might 
cruise — " she emptied sand out of 
her shoes, 
"Out on the ocean cold and deep, where restless 

waters never sleep — " 
"I've heard," she said, "that salted beef will give a 

sea-sick one relief; 
If you and I should ever go, we'd have to take 
a can or so." 




"Oh, loving heart," the man replied; she nestled 

closer at his side; 
"We'd leave behind all grief and care, and be as free 

birds of the air — ' 
"Do you like oytsers raw or fried?" she asked, and 

snuggled at his side. 

The moon with wonder-stricken face saw that the 
two had changed their place ; 

A twelve-foot furrow, four feet wide, showed where 
she'd nestled at his side. 

For as they sat there hand in hand, she'd nestled him 
along the sand; 

But love so does the mind enthrall that neither no- 
ticed it at all. 




SAT in the shadow and watched 

them; her satin-shod foot tapped 

the floor; 
And past her the dancers skimmed 

blithely, nor knew that a woman's 

heart, sore, 
Was longing, yet proudly rebellious, 

that some one, by some happy 

chance , 

Would seek her out where she was 

hidden by palms, and would ask 

her to dance. . 



Her dress, once a joy, was forgotten, for no one 

would care, after all ; 
Who knows what the hurt that is hidden by flowers 

that bloom on the wall ? 



"Oh, here you are! May I?" She, smiling, con- 
siders the card in her hand ; 

Oh, feminine soul, in thy workings are mysteries 
wondrous and grand! 

"I'm sorry;" her voice is regretful; "I've prom- 
ised — " she smiles. "But you know 

I hate so to waste this good music — he should have 
been here long ago." 




- -A 



7\ THE messenger is not to blame for 
;s7 being marvelously slow, 

The weight of worlds is on his head, 

and circumstances make him so ; 
His labors keep him out at night and 

show him sights outside the law 
That age his brain, although he hold 
an all-day-sucker in his 'jaw. 



He loves the name of Buckskin Bill, and if he could 

would tote a gun, 
Yet give him even half a show and playing marbles 

is his fun; 
He tries to chew, and early learns to smoke the 

deadly cigarette, 
Yet he is chubby, round and young — in fact, almost 

a baby yet. 

So do not blame the little boy who brings youi 

telegram next day, 
For as a man he has to work, and as a child he stops 

to play; 
And if he slowly saunters in, eight hours late and 

smiling wide, 
Don't swat him with the nearest club — look on his 

candy-sucking side. 




OMETIMES when you're leis- 
urely bathing, and all is enamel 
and tiles, 
You look back to days of your 
childhood, and mistiness min- 
gles with smiles , 
For nothing can make you forget 
it — no bath tub of glistening 
white — 
The once-a-week torture you 
dreaded; that bath upon Sat- 
urday night. 
They dragged a big tub in the kitchen ; the biggest 

wash tub like as not. 
And on the stove ever since supper stood water most 

terribly hot; 
A boilerful, seething and steaming to urge you to 

sobs of distress, 
While Mother stood firmly beside you, unshaken, 
to help you undress. 

The soap was so yellow and bitter! It got in your 
eyes and your nose ; 

The water was hot as the mischief, and wails of the 
scalded arose 

Until, red and shriveled, you stood there, and won- 
dered because you had cried. 

Because you felt glowing and dandy when you with 
coarse towels were dried. 

The bath rooms to-day have their beauties — ^all 

nickel, enamel and glass — 
But somehow, you look back with longing on years 

that we all must let pass, 
And if you could only turn backward to infancy's 

roseate path, 
How gladly you'd welcome that feature — that wash 

tub and hot-kitchen bath. 



Crv> 




ONLY two cobs from the thousands 

that Father has stored in his bins ; 
But now see the magic of childhood 

— behold! They are babies, and 

twins ; 
And mother must dress and undress 

them , and tears of their grief 

must assuage, 
For babies need care every moment, 

and Mother is six years of age. 
Their faces are furrowed and fuzzy, 

and dresses, loose-hanging, that 

drape 



The rugged outlines of their bodies, entirely con- 
cealing their shape 

Are scraps of old goods, long discarded, and left 
scattered over the place. 

But mothers of six years can change them to rai- 
ment of linens and lace. 



We've lost all the God-given magic that let us make 

clay into gold ; 
We've drawn far away from the fancies the lives of 

all babies must hold, 
And now we are sad in our losing the sweetness of 

life, now afar, 
Because all our wisdom has taught us in seeing 

things just as they are. 




HTS little pig- went to market — " 

a rush of sweet memories 

comes 
And you are again just a baby, 

and counting on fingers and 

thumbs, 
While Mother must help with 

the counting, the pigs are so 

many and small, 
You always miss one or the 

other and never remember 

them all. 



'This little pig went to market. 
This little pig stayed at home, 
This little pig he had plenty to eat, 
This little pig he had none, 
This little piggy cried *Wee-wee-wee' 
All the way home." 



And you stare with your eyes dim and misty, as 

near as a man comes to tears. 
Into the pure days of your lifetimes most perfect 

and happiest years. 
When life held no troubles or sorrows, and Mother 

— one now understands. 
The sweetness of having a Mother to count little 

pigs on his hands. 




^^OYS are^ something like the ostrich 

when it comes to what they eat, 
Though they differ when the ostrich 

balks on what a boy calls meat. 
And if the records should be taken as 

to which deserves the prize, 
Probably the boy would take it, for 

these ostriches are wise. 

Let a boy start in the morning with his breakfast 

food of bran 
Sold in ornamental package through the g^ileless- 

ness of man, 
And lie winds up in the evening, feeling well, but 

hungry still, 
Having taken in his system what would make the 

ostrich ill. 

Peanut crisps and hot tamales, dinner formed of 

divers things, 
Chili, harnburg steak and candy, formed like purple 

leather strings. 
Green tomatoes, cooking apples, milk and red and 

yellow pop, 
Liquorice and ice cream soda with some crushed 

fruit on the top. 

Buttermilk and watermelon, caramels and cherry 

pie, 
Lemonade and all -day-suckers, but he doesn't go 

and die. 
But instead, when on his bedside, to his brown and 

naked feet 
He remarks. "Oh, gee! I'm hungry — wish I had 

some cake to eat." 




i"HE porch you can see little fig- 
ures race madly with laughter 
and scream ; 

I spy Lilly Belle!" And the 
picture sinks you in the waves 
of a dream, 

\nd you are again with the chil- 
dren, from sorrows and cares 
wholly free, 
And peeping through fingers while counting one 
hundred and facing a tree. 



I 



'1-4^^ 






(E-eny, meeny, miney, mo, 
Crack-a-feeny, finey, fo, 
Opanoocha, popatoocha, 
Rick, hick, ban — jo. You're IT!) 

One, two, three, four, five, ten, fifteen, twenty, 
twenty-five, forty, sixty, eighty (No fair! 
No fair! ONE PTUNDRED I Here I 
come ready'r'not. All eyes open!) 

Now what is that bulge on the maple, and why 

should a bush be so black? 
I spy — no it can't be — who is it? It's Edna, or 

Arthur or Jack! 
A whoop, and a figures flies past you, "I'm 

free-e-e-e-e!" and another, with glee, 
Tears out from the porch's gray shadows, and 

joyously thumps on the tree. 

The game is as old as the ages ; with you 'twas 

exactly the same, 
And now you are grievously tempted, you have to 

admit, half in shame. 
If you were a year or so younger, you'd go take 

a hand in that g^ame. 



\ 




^r\iJl r^ GOT a new hand-painted churn Pa 
\jj \ ^ bought *on th' instaHment plan, 

Because th' agent had red socks, an' 

was so pretty for a man; 
An' all you got to do is push, an' read 

a book — like it was fun; 
An' keep on pushin' that-a-way, an' 
readin' tel th' butter's done. 

But sometimes when my arms is sore from pushin' 

on that blessed thing. 
That cross betwixt a feedin' trough, a bucket and 

a swing, 
I wisht it was a o'-time churn, so I could slosh it 

up and down, 
An' have th' splashy buttermilk run out in puddles 

on th' groun', 
An' lift th' lid sometimes t' see th' golden speckles 

in th' white, 
That tells a feller when he chums the butter is a- 

comin' right. 

But this! There ain't no way t' tell. Yuo chum 

until you nearly drop 
An' nature puts you fast asleep, or else you simply 

have t' stop. 
Don't want no churn you shove an' shove, an' read 

a book, an' turn an' turn; 
I'd rather make th' buttermilk come squirting from 

a' old-time churn. 




THE preacher came to dinner, don't 

you recollect the way 
People had of sending children out 

at dinner time to play? 
How you'd peep in through the 

window and behold the goodly 

spread, 
^Mshing — oh, you little sinner! — 

that the preacher would drop 

dead? 



They had killed the fatted chicken, baked him cakes 
and custard pies, 

They had searched the fields and gardens, under- 
ground and in the skies, 

That they might have food a-plenty, and had fried 
and boiled and baked, 

And you stared in through the window, hungry, 
'til you fairl)^ ached. 



You would watch his every mouthful, grudging 

him each bite and sup, 
Wishing, as you held your stomach, he would go 

and hurry up; 
And at last — oh, hours after! — everybody sighed 

and rose. 
And — well, v, hat's the use of telling something 

e\'erybody knows? 



^fflS 



hO'X belonged to ol' man Smith, 
and how he used to swear 
^^i When he come out and saw us 




ft^^^^IJ^^^'^ boys was playin' baseball there! 
Because 'way back in years ago, 

the thought stuck in his brain, 
Somebody — maybe grandpa did, 

oncest bust a window pane. 



I1ie diamond it was awful rough and full of holes 

and bumps; 
And comin' in from third to home you run around 

the stumps. 
And where the pitcher had to play was bricks and 

cans and rocks, 
So he would always stand to pitch off one side of 

the box. 

You ought to see us make home runs! The bat 

was full of dents. 
But nearly every ])all you soaked would sail acrost 

the fence ; 
So while a boy would make for home, the rest 

would stand and stare, 
For it was in the stable lot — and ol' man Smith 

was there. 

Then ol' man Smith would take our ball, and growl 

at us and cuss. 
And then he'd give a funny snort and pitch it back 

to us: 
Sometimes he'd scowl and make believe he'd keep 

it after all. 
But maybe he could play, hisself — the way he 

throwed that ball! 




GOBLINS are abroad this evening, 

all about are eerie shapes, 
Once a year their bondage ceases at 

a time when silence drapes 
All the earth, and in the moonlight 

flit the forms of sheeted ghosts, 
Every shadow of the night-time 

holds weird, uncanny hosts. 



Mortals braver than their fellows, quaking with the 

chill of fear. 
Seek, through calling ghostly knowledge, signs to 

make the future clear — 
And the gates are on the steeples, cows are painted 

pink and green — 
Surely it's the work of goblins celebrating Mallow- 

e'en. 

Apple parings now are priceless, cabbage stalks 
and brimming bowls, 

Looking glasses in the cellar tell their tale to anx- 
ious souls. 

Hearts that beat in fearful tremor so their owners 
scarce can wait — 

Yes, I know — but who in thunder carried off my 
carriage gate? 




c^ GOT some kittens in our shed that 
keeps' their eyes shut tight; 
^ Four of 'em's spotted like their ma, 
and nine is black an' white, 
An' six is black as ink, an' five is 

white as they can be — 
But ain't it queer they should be 
gray? I mean th' other three. 

Ma says we go got to drown' em all, 
she don't like cats a bit ; 
They eat canary birds sometimes, an' always has 

a fit. 
But we'll let on they all was drowned — we'll wet 

a sack to show, 
An' some day she'll be awful glad when them nice 
kittens grow. 



^^e Verses of 

3farrY TC* ^arriner 

^l)e 5lew5 Staff "poet 



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50c lEac^ 



'Joyous ^a'2& 
5nirtl)ful IKnisbts 
X^ljen you anb 3 



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